


five times diarmuid kisses the mute, and one time the mute kisses back

by elizabethgee



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: M/M, PTSD, Romance, a tiny bit of violence, references to the crusades
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:47:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26113648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizabethgee/pseuds/elizabethgee
Summary: Prompt fill for Diarmute bingo.
Relationships: Brother Diarmuid/The Mute
Comments: 5
Kudos: 29





	five times diarmuid kisses the mute, and one time the mute kisses back

The Mute wakes suddenly, jolting upright and scrabbling backwards until his spine scrapes against a cold stone wall. His labored breathing shatters the silence around him. _Where is he? When is he?_

His hands twitch against the bedding beneath him for a weapon— anything to defend himself—

“It’s okay,” a voice calls, sleep heavy and soft in the darkness. The Mute stops breathing, listening desperately.

“You’re safe,” the voice says again, and this time the Mute recognizes the voice as Diarmuid’s. He sucks in a shaky breath, fingers clenching hard in the rough fabric beneath him, trying desperately to focus on Diarmuid’s presence next to him and not the spirits mocking him in the dark.

A soft, careful hand lands against his sweat slick chest.

“Breathe.”

He cannot deny that voice and he obeys, sucking air into his lungs, shivering on the outbreath.

“They’re just memories,” Diarmuid reminds him, palm laying flat against the dip in his chest between his pectoral muscles, grounding him.

“You’ve been sick. We’re in the healer’s clochan,” Diarmuid says the words calmly, and the Mute thinks that perhaps he has woken up like this before.

“The fever is giving you bad dreams, but Brother Ciaran says it will break soon.”

The Mute reaches up and grips Diarmuid’s wrist, holding the novice’s hand against his chest. _Don’t leave._

“I’ll be here when you wake again,” Diarmuid reassures him.

The air shifts and soft lips press to his temple— a blessing that chases the remnants of his dream from his mind. The mute shivers, hand sliding to curl around Diarmuid’s, holding the young man’s hand against his chest.

He doesn’t dream again that night.

\---

It’s his fault. He should have been paying more attention to what he’s doing and not darting his eyes over to watch Diarmuid brush his hair.

The blade slips as he’s trimming his beard and white hot pain slices along his bottom lip. With a gasp of surprise he drops the razor, vibrant red dripping onto his fingers. His heart starts pounding, panic swelling in his ribcage—

Diarmuid appears in front of him, a clean cloth in one hand and the fingers of his other moving to touch under his chin, tilting his head up. His gaze lifts from the bloodied razor and he latches onto Diarmuid’s calm gaze. Diarmuid smiles at him, patient brown eyes warm and still as he presses the cloth to the Mute’s bleeding lip, holding it there to staunch the blood.

“The bleeding will stop in a moment,” he says, voice a cool balm against the Mute’s instinctive panic.

Diarmuid’s free hand moves from his chin up to his hair, running his fingers through the Mute’s disheveled curls. His movements are soft and soothing, as though the Mute is a startled beast that needs calming.

Perhaps he is. The crusades had certainly made him into a brute— a mangled, twisted creature that reacts without thought at the sight of violence. But Diarmuid is untouched by that, and the Mute stays still, determined to keep the brute under his own skin and away from the innocent soul in front of him.

After long moments, Diarmuid carefully pulls the cloth back.

“There. It’s not bleeding anymore. Just be careful not to pull it,” Diarmuid says, and the pain vanishes as Diarmuid brushes a feather light thumb across the cut, pausing to press into the hot swell of his bottom lip before pulling away.

\---

Sleep evades the Mute. He always struggles to sleep when the weather turns hot and dry. When he was a child it was not a problem. He liked lying on top of the sheets, feeling the air move over him at night. It was comforting, then. Now, try as he might, he cannot convince his body that he’s not camped in a desert, waiting for orders to inflict violence and pain on his fellow man.

Diarmuid caught him pacing outside on this particular evening and coaxed him into the healer’s clochan with warm hands against his biceps.

The Mute eagerly watches Diarmuid move around the small cooking area. The sight of the young man working makes the desert ghosts fade to the back of his mind. Still there, but the screams are dulled and the metallic taste on his tongue fades.

Diarmuid takes several pretty green leaves in his hand and crushes them, releasing the fragrant oils into the air before dropping them into a mug of heated water.

They sit for long moments while the water infuses, Diarmuid carefully watching the water shift color so as not to over infuse the liquid.

A wooden spoon fishes the leaves out, and Diarmuid picks up the mug, blowing against the steam and taking a small sip before passing the mug to the Mute. Diarmuid carefully turns the mug so that the place where Diarmuid’s lips had pressed against the clay is facing the Mute.

The Mute blinks at the gesture, looking up and seeing Diarmuid’s cheeks pink at the scrutiny.

_Oh._

He picks up the mug cradles it in his hands, feeling the warmth seep through his skin. He lifts the mug to his lips, keeping eye contact as he presses his lips to the same spot Diarmuid drank from, taking the hot liquid into his mouth. The infusion soothes his insides as it travels down into his stomach— warm and minty, and Diarmuid watches him, eyes soft and pleased in the dark.

\---

One of the Mute’s favorite places is the beach. He sits in the cool sand, drinking in the smell of salted water and wild grass, watching Diarmuid wade through the shallows as he collects seaweeds in his woven basket. Eventually Diarmuid fills his basket and comes to join him, watching the waves lap at the shore, listening to the sucking of water against sand.

“We should head back,” Diarmuid says. The Mute stands and as he turns to grab his own baskets of seaweeds, Diarmuid’s fingers grip his sleeve and tugs him back around.

Diarmuid hugs him, arms winding around his waist and face pressing against his chest. The Mute lets out a surprised sound, freezing with his hands out. When Diarmuid just squeezes closer as though afraid he’ll be pushed away, the Mute carefully places his arms around Diarmuid’s shoulders, holding him with hesitant arms.

Diarmuid sighs and melts against him, the sound triggering something in the Mute’s chest and making him tighten his hold around the slender shoulders. Diarmuid hands slide up under the Mute’s shirt to press into his skin. He flinches a bit out of instinct, knowing that his scars are probably unpleasant to touch, but Diarmuid just holds fast, unwilling to let him go.

Diarmuid’s fingers shift, kissing along the roadmap of scars, memorizing their shapes and locations. His touch both burns and soothes, exposing and healing simultaneously.

It’s not long before the Mute starts to feel jumpy— skin aching and heart pounding— and he clears his throat, blushing at Diarmuid’s laugh as he pulls away and picks up his basket of sea vegetables to lead the way home.

\---

Diarmuid hates the comb he uses— the Mute knows because he’s seen Diarmuid grimacing as he pulls the wood through his curls— dry wood catching and tugging at his locks.

Rubbing a thumb along the teeth of the fine-tooth comb, the Mute second guesses himself for what must be the hundredth time this morning. It had taken him nearly a week to carve the dark, aromatic wood into a fine-toothed brush. It had taken another week to properly season the wood with oils and waxes. It was worth the effort though— it had turned a deep red color with moisture and slid effortlessly through his own hair when he tested it.

He waits until the perfect moment— when Diarmuid is combing his hair with his hated brush in the morning. He walks up behind Diarmuid silently, takes the new comb and delicately glides it through Diarmuid’s curls. Diarmuid freezes like a deer.

He slides the comb through Diarmuid’s curls once more, relishing the smooth, snag free slip, then walks around and kneels in front of Diarmuid, holding the comb out. Diarmuid gapes at the shining comb in his hand. He’s starting to get more and more nervous, snakes writhing in his guts as Diarmuid stares and doesn’t say anything.

“For me,” Diarmuid finally asks, voice small as he looks up to search the Mute’s gaze. The Mute swallows hard and nods, watching Diarmuid fingers reach out and pick up the comb. He observes it closely, fingers gliding over the oiled surface, the fine teeth, the carved lamb at the top.

“This is…very finely crafted,” Diarmuid says, cradling the comb in his hands.

A blush fills the Mute’s cheeks and he shifts, standing to escape the scrutiny. A soft hand grips his wrist before he can walk away and Diarmuid leans close, standing up on his toes and pressing his warm lips against the side of the Mute’s mouth. He sucks in a quick breath in surprise, but Diarmuid just pulls back and gives him a smile full of sunlight.

“Thank you,” he says with such earnest fondness that the Mute cannot hold his gaze. He drops his eyes to watch Diarmuid’s fingers slide along the carved wood, reverent.

\---

+1

The sun has reached its zenith when the Mute decides to take a break. It’s a day of rest for the monks, but the Mute cannot stand the silence of inactivity for too long, so he’s spent the morning fixing a damaged portion of their fencing. A couple sheep have taken to jumping through the broken gate and wandering off for hours at a time, so the repair will save them a lot of stress in worrying about the rogue creatures.

Diarmuid had spent the night in his clochan, sleeping by his side and stealing his warmth. He had snuck into the Mute’s space in the evening, claiming cold and loneliness, and the Mute had lifted the sheets to let Diarmuid slide into the bed with him. The Mute was careful to keep himself angled away from Diarmuid during the night so as not to embarrass Diarmuid with the Mute’s attraction to him.

He needn’t have worried, because Diarmuid was still asleep in the early morning hours when the Mute had snuck out to repair the fence, and the Mute assumes he’s still asleep as he approaches the monastery and sees no sign of him.

He steps into his clochan, blinking rapidly to adjust his eyes to the darkness. Diarmuid shifts in the bed at the sound of his arrival, sitting up and kicking the sheets off of him. The Mute’s heart stutters at the sight of him— sleep rumpled and soft, wearing the Mute’s sleep shirt. He must have grabbed it at some point after the Mute had left this morning. The worn brown cloth hangs loose on his body and he kneels on the mattress and stretches. The shirt slides up as he reaches towards the ceiling, revealing the soft, vulnerable skin of his inner thighs. The Mute's mouth waters as the fabric pulls at the swelling organ between his legs, and Diarmuid smiles up at the Mute with pure, trusting affection.

“Good morning,” he mumbles.

The Mute’s chest gives in and he drops his tools, striding to the bed and bracing himself with a knee between Diarmuid’s spread thighs. Diarmuid makes a soft, inquisitive hum, but the Mute is lost— falling, falling—

He cups Diarmuid’s cheeks in his hands, thumbs rubbing against Diarmuid’s unblemished jaw, and he gives in, pressing his lips to Diarmuid’s soft, pink mouth. Diarmuid hums, pleased, and presses back, reaching up to hold the Mute’s hands against his face.

“Finally,” Diarmuid breathes against his lips, tugging at his shoulders to pull him back to bed.


End file.
